Question Mark
by Be3
Summary: John Watson only tells the truth, MYCROFT is only told the truth, Mike Stamford likes art, Anthea speaks in riddles, Moriarty happened long ago, and Sherlock Holmes has just arrived.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings**: spoilers to various eps; mis-quotes (because I watched Sherlock in translation); computer!Mycroft, wizard!John... and the most dreadful of all - Moriarty had... won.  
**Author's Notes:** 1) standard disclaimer applies.  
2) this is an anti-utopia. As can be seen throughout the fandom, Sherlock isn't as strong on teaching people to seek the natural, and not the supernatural, explanations to phenomena, as Sherlock Holmes used to be; also, John is far more flippant about some things than John Watson ever was. I'm not saying it is bad, I'm just saying I like the hard-won earthiness of The Canon (ACD's works) much better...

Hello. Just a word before we begin.

My dad was the gentlest and most taciturn man I ever knew.  
People looked down on him, reformed Londoner that he was, but he would just smile and point out something completely obvious - as I used to think. I didn't think that it would apply to me.  
That he was teaching me even then.  
There was this time when I was five.  
'Johnny,' he said, lowering his newspaper. 'What colour is this table?''  
'White,' I said, because the table was white.  
'Hmm.' And he raised it up again.  
Only he asked me the same question that very evening.  
'White!' I said.  
'But you haven't looked.'  
I looked, and underneath the tablecloth it was green.  
'Very well,' dad murmured. 'Remember, dear: look before you speak...'  
But even that wasn't the end of it.  
On the day he died (I was twenty-six), he asked me again what colour the table was.  
I went to look - mostly out of respect; we weren't in the habit of changing furniture.  
'Green.'  
And he swallowed and said, 'No.'  
It was his last word ever. He fell down, clawing at his throat, and despite everything we did, despite all I had learned in the Uni, died in agony two hours later.  
Mom gave me the letter - I have it still. He'd feared this would happen - that he would grow old and careless, and make a slip; not that he would do this on purpose. Lie, I mean. He wasn't cruel, just - you know, the ultimate lesson costs the ultimate price, and the World will not suffer two Truth-sayers at once.  
He was a Truth-sayer.  
Apparently, now I am one. I cannot betray the Truth even to save my life, or any life, for that matter.  
So I rang to the hospital and told them I'd changed my mind about working there, but didn't give them any reason. Instead, I enlisted  
in the Army and went to Afghanistan.  
Mom begged me to stay. Scotland hadn't fallen as low as the rest of the country, and I could live a long and happy life there; that was what Dad would have wanted, anyway.  
I held my tongue, because I, too, wasn't cruel. (Only angry.) She had my best interests in heart, and her love blinded her - and I was rather relieved to learn that I wasn't required to rectify other people's mistakes, just to never make any of my own.  
I had served for six years. Whatever illusions I had had about the Army were lost early in the service. How I managed at all is a mystery - the pressure was unbelievable, but I think it is the best school for a TS.  
It took six years to understand that if I die there, nobody will prepare the next one. The idea came at a time when I'd have welcomed any distraction: I was being invalided out, with a bum leg and a worse shoulder. It was back to England, a World inside the world.  
Sebastian Wilkes III had just been elected as the PM, and reactionists seized the last thread of power that for a few years had  
been beyond their grasp. (I sensed a threat, though what it was I did not know.) The State's repute plummeted down. Articles about 'the Great Mystification' appeared on a weekly basis. We we compared to -ists of every colour and persuasion; no official statement was put forth - again, as expected.  
Everybody knows that a single man cannot overthrow a regime, or I would have tried.  
But I didn't.  
I came to London, rented a room, unpacked my case, called Mom, hid my cane and sat on the bed to stare at the other wall, thinking, 'We need a miracle.'  
It was three months later that Harry, my sister, sent me a sawed-off chunk of the old tabletop...  
And it was white.  
So there. I'd better start with the story, eh?

Part 1.

I received the memento on the first of the Ten Clear Days - a peculiar, to say the least, feature of our spring weather. Once upon a time the 'storm' didn't have the 'eye'. But not Since Moriarty. He - or it; the stories do not agree on this point - did something that should not be possible to do. Actually, he (for the sake of convenience) did that a lot. Climate change - check...

I do not mind it, usually. I have a great time at Home (Baker Street, 221 b, a.k.a Open-Wide), helping Mrs. Hudson entertain her guests.

Mrs. Hudson is my landlady, and something of a suffragette. She invites down-on-their-luck hitmen to help her with Christmas decorations - and yes, hit_men_, the last time there were four of them. Because they were strong, resourceful people who wouldn't bat an eye at a spot of colour.

(Colour is not discussed freely, for evident reasons. Or should I say, for the reason of being evident.)

When Mr. Anderson, our dratted neighbour, dared to complain about the skull she keeps in her front window as a robber-repellant, she looked him in the eye and ground out: 'Death awaits us all.'

Which, now that she said it out loud, _has_ to be false.

And when I leave an unwashed mug where she can see it, she washes it herself, and gives back with a wink and a 'not your housekeeper, dear.'

This last piece is my favourite. People do have a natural inclination to (gasp!) own the truth: somewhere in our hindbrains, the last grain of honesty still perseveres. I found indications that Before Moriarty it was the untruth that was frowned upon and even prosecuted by law in some instances! This is why, I believe, even in our time people prefer to be vague, to hint, to avoid the question than to tell an outright lie. Unless, of course, they hurt and have only an ounce of self-possession left, like Janet did this morning.

Mrs. Hudson is always direct, so direct that her meaning cannot be mistaken... I worry for her.

Who is Janet? A girl. Used to be my girlfriend, but…

'Janet!'

She turned away. To do this she had to start turning back, and then abruptly decide against it.

'Janet, wait! I can walk your dog! See? I'm ready to walk your dog!'

She stopped dead and delivered her final punch loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.

'I have no dog, Watson.'

…so we sort of broke up.

It really is a shame, this coding and hiding. I wish there was someone who would _understand_, without me having to spell things out, before evolution remembers about us and wipes this sad island clean of any lifeform, to give it another chance somewhere in Next-o-cene.

But I have mentioned Mrs. Hudson's guests _and_ Mr. Anderson. They don't mix well, so let us consider them separately.

My landlady isn't rich, and the flat I have to myself should in good conscience be paid for twice the rent I enjoy. I explained, on the outset, that I hoped to share it someday with my 'heir', if Fate would be so kind. She had me demonstrate my 'supernatural' abilities - I called the flour _flour_ – and, being an old widow, with too much romance in her head if you ask me, proclaimed that if I lived under her roof I would be a grandson that she'd never had.

I evaded the Grandson Allusion (someday, when we will all come out, she will tell; and I will listen, if it is the last thing I do) and we shook on the arrangement, but money was still tight until she had this splendid idea.

To make ends meet, we created a museum. Yes, just like that, out of thin air etc.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2.

To be frank, the idea might not be strictly hers.

I had just returned from the Gallery, two minutes to midnight; I've got to tell you about that stroll someday - Stamford is such a boy at heart... where was I? Oh, yes. Needless to say, the Gallery left a lasting impression on my mind. I was feeling all inspired and hopeful, and rather inclined to try my own hand at something - don't laugh - extraordinary; an inner voice whispered in my head when I saw our plain door: 'A neat bronze plaque would look so dignified here.'

I was young, not high, Sherlock. You wouldn't know the difference, but I can tell you - there's a World of it...

Right, anyway…

Mrs. Hudson was watching some crap American movie by the sound of it, and definitely not fretting. She offered me a sip of her trademark 'herbal soother' (a valid name, as I suspect you could use it as a herbicide), I made tea... We sat for some time, talking about I don't know what... and then it just _happened_ - the Eureka Moment.

'This country, it's like a yellowback,' she said with distaste. 'You read it, and read it, and in the end you've got the same, hic, _yellow_ cover.'

'Uh-huh,' I said, dreaming of worldly things.

'Here, let me show you… I did bring one with me, didn't I?'

'It can wait. You probably left it on a bedstand, or mislaid it, or...' I waved a hand.

'Mislaid! Why don't we mislay the dreadful thing?' She giggled and brandished her cup. 'I ask you, why don't we?'

I offered her a hand - she's got a bad hip, and it is always sore after a 'soothing' night, what with all this bumping into things - and made a joke to lighten the mood. What was it... to call Superman, or Hercules, or any other of the prized Saviors collecting dust in the storerooms.

And then I helped her to her room, and forgot all about it. And the next morning - I don't know how she manages to get up earlier than me no matter when she goes to sleep - there was a note on the fridge: 'Storeroom. Beware! There is nothing here! Yet.'

- and it all went downhill from there. The spirit of industry had seized Mrs. Hudson, and she made me participate, too.

After a long and tortuous discussion we settled on the name: The National Museum of Fiction.

...And it was all we could settle on for a good long while yet. Fiction indeed! I can hear you scoff.

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a staunch supporter of Dickens, Bronte and all those Great Authors of an age long past. She was too wise to differentiate between them. If it had a hearse and a moonlit garden and wedding bells, it went into the soup.

She would dump on the sofa various oldish things the ragman was glad to get rid of, and cluck her tongue about how they didn't seem to 'fit into the general picture'.

Then she added a couple of family keepsakes like the chipped sugar bowl of her cousin twice removed, and I couldn't take it any more. We were swamped... It was like living in 221 Bedlam. Though the skill did come in handy later, didn't it?

'Mrs. HUDSON!' I bellowed. Bit not good, yesss, don't rub it in, will you? It worked, after all. She stood at attention. I steeled myself to give her Instructions, even if I had none.

'Plan it out, and than, ah, plan it out again, to see if you could attack the problem from a different angle...'

'What different angle?' exploded the poor lady.

'Just... different.'

A light came into her eyes.

'Do you mean GBS?'

A wave of renovations rose and fell, leaving behind the Violin and the Hearth. (The link to GBS is beyond logic.) We swept out the rubbish, and suddenly, we were standing in a much cozier place.

But it wasn't a museum yet. And the microscope which I had hid in the kitchen during the Stage of Amassing Junk was all on display. (I guess I just caught the virus and made a reckless purchase... And felt the dumber when the rush died down.)

We were weary. But we had a hobby! It made life less... boring, you would say. Certainly we had long abandoned our initial foolhardiness.

In the end, Mrs. Hudson, tenacious Scotswoman that she is, hit upon a happy idea: let the visitors bring what stuff they would, and _then_ persuade us that it should stay. And if we were feeling generous, we would probably maybe promise to give it a thought...

'And people will actuall pay for it?'

_Next station - Bankruptcy..._

'No, of course not,' she sighed.

For once, we seemed to share an opinion. I viewed it as a good sign. There weren't many of them around...


	3. Chapter 3

I am still not sure why it worked – maybe Twittering helped. At first, only a few came. Then suddenly, there were so many we didn't know what to do with them.

You'd dismiss most of them as dull, but we didn't have that luxury. Had to hire Ella, to hear out the crazies. She was tickled by the fee, said the work better be its own reward... Then again, where else was she going to find a job she'd studied for? It was either work for us, or work for Mr. Wilkes.

Naturally, she stayed.

Mrs. Hudson made a sign for the front window, that we were open nine thirty to six, but nobody bothered with that - at times, it was like people stopped bothering with the time zone. Or the age. There was this Arab - remember him? The guy in silks, with a turban and a sword? Nearly scared me into a heart attack.

Basically there I was climbing the stairs, bringing bread and milk and whatnot, and the door just bangs open! Sherlock, I mean it, it's not funny! A robed madman runs past me with a - a _war cry_, hacking at the banister as he leaps over it! And guess who was chasing him down?

Mrs. Hudson told me later that she'd found him leaning over the sofa, muttering to himself and brandishing his big sword at my laptop. She was going to vacuum the room - we'd had some trouble with secret messages drawn in dust, of all things...

He heard her, turned around and - well, I needn't tell you how formidable she can be when it comes to property damage. It happened right after those graffitis started appearing, so she was breathing fire...

The loser sent us a picture, with _I was apprehended here_ scribbled at the bottom, and addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq.

There was another one, Mr. Henri Knight, the Baskerville Wonder. Ella threatened to quit, and who'd blame her? _I_ spent half an hour shouting as if she was _my_ therapist. He spoke of a giant rat. A giant hound – no, HOUND. And last, but not least, of a bunny that was glowing like a fairy! Granted, I could believe he saw one. The stuff they smoke down there is a veritable CWA – and no, I'm not going to tell how I came about this bit of knowledge. And Mrs. Hudson, poor soul, said the smell was 'funny'.

There was a serial killer – or rather, a fatally ill cab driver who thought himself one, and almost did me in in an attempt to prove it (by the way, I'm fine, thanks for asking). Like Sergeant Donovan said, there are copycats, and then there are copycats. Donovan actually thought we at Baker Street were inventing the Perfect Murderer! I'd never laughed so hard. But then, she's the kind of person to suspect her neighbor in the face of total absence of evidence. Like Mr. Anderson.

Now I know you wouldn't like to hear much about Mr. Anderson, but it is essential that you listen, because John Bull doesn't object to the way things are. _Things just _are_ for him; no reason is needed_. He doesn't want them to change, wouldn't know _what_ to change.

So consider this a lesson in mediocrity and listen well.

Mr. Anderson lives across from us. He is a white collar, a bachelor, a football fan, and a collector of toy dinosaurs. You would add a thousand more details; I would just as easily skip them. He was the first one to come to NMoF. I don't think he was the first one to do anything else.

Mrs. Hudson dislikes him so strongly, there's probably some history there. Or she could hate him on sight – she's a dear. Anyway, he saunters in a Sunday, without a by-your-leave or a word, and after less time it takes you to survey a crime scene he sniffs and turns away!

He donated a deerstalker; with earflaps that one could turn down if one ever grew bored with the 'drivel' that our visitors 'spouted'.


End file.
